


we two alone will sing like birds i' th' cage

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Flashbacks, M/M, Pain Kink, Soulfisting, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 14:47:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6570352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Cas have sex post Casifer. It's a spectacularly bad idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we two alone will sing like birds i' th' cage

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Kinks/warnings by pairing:  
> Lucifer/Sam (noncon, graphic torture, extreme pain kink, Stockholm Syndrome)  
> Sam/Cas (dubcon, pain kink, soulfisting, D/s themes)
> 
> 2\. Written for the salt_burn_porn challenge on LJ for anactoria's prompt "it looks better on you."

“Hmmmm, no, on second thought, it looked better on you. This way’s a bit pathetic, don’t you think? Stretched out. Droopy.” 

Lucifer flicks a fingernail against Sam’s flayed skin. It sways flaccidly. It does look unimpressive, more sad than horrible. It’s hard to concentrate on it, though. The pain is so absolute, so multiple and so simple, every single nerve ending, all over. Sam swims in it like fire, walks on it like exquisite knives. There’s no blood. Lucifer’s a miracle worker that way. Sam can see the veins on his penis where it stands up stiff, and the rubbery, grey nerves. He can see the fibers of his abs, the gleam of bone at his knees and knuckles. It’s amazing. Lucifer comes over and looks down at him and he looks amazed, too.

“It almost seems a pity to put it back on,” he says. “But don’t worry, we will. Maybe we can make it fit this time.” 

He drops a reassuring hand on the raw flesh and nerve of Sam’s shoulder. Sam screams, a long, releasing _Ahhhhh_ that makes Lucifer draw in his breath with sympathetic pleasure.

He used to fuck Sam like this, but they’ve both got past that. It’s not exact enough. Now there are scissors and pins, small, sharp, fire-gold pins. Lucifer snips patchwork pieces of skin and tacks them down while Sam watches, mapping the shiny bristle of pinheads in dense, inward-reaching stabs of sensation. They circle his nipples, fasten the shriveled sacs of his balls, hedge the border where his asshole connects his outsides to his insides. 

As he starts to take shape Sam relaxes and lets himself beg. Lucifer won’t mind now. _More, more, another pin there, one there, another, more_. It’s never enough, he’s never together enough. But at some point he comes, a spatter of warm-cool white, analgesic as lotion. Lucifer tuts in disapproval of the mess, but when Sam sobs he gives in, soothing, rubs Sam’s snot and semen and tears into the long seams of his skin. It feels amazing. It feels better than anything ever has.

*****************

Sam jerks and sits up. He zoned out for a minute, there. He’s not supposed to zone out. He’s not somewhere where he’s supposed to zone out.

He’s in his room in the Bunker. It’s Cas. Cas is touching him. It’s something they do sometimes. Netflix and chill. Apparently it’s something they still do. Cas cast Lucifer out. He made that choice. He chose to cast him out. So there isn’t overlap. Sam of all people shouldn’t be seeing Lucifer now.

Sam looks down at his crotch. Thank God, he didn’t come. He’s still only half-hard. They must be just getting started. He didn’t jizz himself thinking of Lucifer. Sam’s pretty much an expert in shame and betrayal, but at least his stupid dick didn’t go and fuck this one up. It’s probably safe to look at Cas. Cas probably didn’t notice.

Cas looks like he often looks during sex, calmly curious. But Sam’s skin twitches and crawls, as if it’s picking up on something in Cas’s fingers, some avidity, something that’s left over from Lucifer. And when Cas meets his eye he looks nervous. He never used to look nervous.

“Do you want to stop?” Cas asks. He almost sounds hopeful. Maybe Cas isn’t sure, either. 

It’s not that Sam can’t stand being touched. He’s had sex since the Cage, for fuck’s sake. He’s had quite a lot of sex since the Cage. It hasn’t been a problem, mostly. It’s especially not that he doesn’t want Cas to touch him. It’s not that bad. They can still do this. Just — not the surface. Sam just needs to rearrange things a bit. 

He has a picture of Cas reaching into his chest, getting at the heart of the matter. And why not? Cas is an angel. Angels can do that.

Lucifer did that. Lucifer in Cas. Casifer. Sam’s not going to think about that. He’s not going to think about why he wants this, why he wants Cas to tear through him instead of working cautiously around the borders.

“What do you want, Sam?” 

Cas sounds patient. If he really is nervous, it’s not reaching his voice. It’s one of the things Sam likes about having sex with Cas, how steady Cas’s voice always is. He looks kind of wrecked, like he hasn’t been sleeping, even though angels don’t sleep, but his voice is perfectly steady.

Sam licks his lips. It’s a complicated question, more and more factors crowding in. It’s confusing. But not confusing like he doesn’t know what he wants. 

“This is going to sound weird,” he says.

“What?” says Cas, a little surprised, maybe. Cas is never weirded out by sex. He takes things in stride. It’s another thing Sam likes about sex with Cas. Even coming back, now, after Lucifer he’s taking it in stride. He seems to think it’s normal that he and Sam will pick up where they left off. Sam’s grateful for that. It would be stupid to mess it up.

“I want you to, to reach into me. Touch my soul. You know. Your soulfisting thing. I want you to do that.”

Cas frowns.

“Why would you want that? It’s painful. And dangerous, even if I’m not drawing energy. This is supposed to be safe. I don’t think we should do that. I don’t think I want to do that.”

“What do you want, then? To be my safe fuck? Come on, Cas. Don’t you see? This way you can be sure that it’s me inside. This way I can be sure. It’s not like I’ve never been him.” 

It’s a visceral thrill of sense memory, somewhere in Sam, the feeling of snapping his fingers and watching Cas explode. Getting Cas off is never that moment of absolute power. Sam should make sure that isn’t what’s going on somewhere inside him. He should get Cas to reach in and just make sure. He’ll have to trust Cas for that, and do what he says. Just to get this done, he’ll have to. It’s the right thing to ask.

Cas sighs, but it’s a concession.

“Sit down in the chair, then,” he says, “if you really insist on this.” 

The first order. The pleasure of it sings along Sam’s veins with every step to the chair. Cas doesn’t know this about him, Sam doesn’t think. Maybe he’ll find out, though, this time, when he reaches in.

“You’ll have to tie me,” Sam says. He hopes he doesn’t sound too eager. He hopes at least Cas doesn’t realize what he’s eager for.

Sam never does this, ever, not with people he knows. Sometimes with strangers he picks up at the right kind of bar. Very occasionally he pays someone to do what he needs. Minimal risk. Most of them are good people, and even at worst they’ll only knife him for his wallet. They can’t really get hold of him.

It’s too much of a risk, too much power to hand someone who’s already close, the drugged, hot, perfect weight Sam feels when he knows he’s going to obey someone who will hurt him. It’s only been since the Cage. It’s mostly only been since the Cage. His breathing drags slow and deep with it already, the weight of his dick thick against his belly, aching for someone to command it. 

He needs this, he thinks. He needs this right now. He needs Cas to pull him down. He needs to be a mermaid under there, to breathe water, and then he needs someone to tell him to cut off his finned tail and walk out on bleeding, deformed feet back onto the land. 

He’ll let Cas think it’s just the soulfisting thing, though. He can offer Cas that, let him make sure.

He closes his eyes and works on controlling his breathing while Cas gets rope from the duffel and ties his wrists and his legs. They’ve done bondage before. And this is strictly practical. There’s no reason for Cas to guess that it’s any different. Apart from the soulfisting.

“You’ll need my belt,” says Cas. “Here. Bite down.”

There’s probably no mistaking the way Sam’s dick jumps at the imperative, but he doesn’t think Cas is looking. He can’t make any betraying noise, because Cas’s belt is in his mouth. The leather tastes acrid. Sam’s drool smears at the corners of his lips. It’s a good, bothersome tickle of sensation.

“Are you ready?” says Cas. His voice is stern and controlled, but still steady and calm. 

Sam looks up at him. If he could he’d bend over and spread, bend back and unlock his chest and hold it open. But he can’t move, he’s tied, and he can’t talk, he’s gagged. He hopes he’s getting the message across with his eyes. Something’s getting through to Cas, anyway. He’s hard and erect. His vessel-body doesn’t always exactly participate when they have sex — Cas doesn’t mind, he even seems to like the more circuitous routes he takes to pleasure — but right now Jimmy’s dick is definitely involved. That’s got to be some kind of vindication, Sam thinks, almost like a blessing. He even imagines for a moment that Cas could get it into his chest. Soulfucking. 

But it’s his arm Cas uses, as usual, clever fingers and broad wrist, muscled forearm scattered with dark hairs. The pain is better than Sam had remembered.

Cas reaches in and grips. This is how it’s been. Cas, Cas, Lucifer, Cas. Sam groans, moving his hips as much as he can, trying to turn on the burning axis filling, transecting his being. Cas is doing something with his fingers. That’s … new. That’s not something anyone’s done before, not even Lucifer. Sam goes still, makes a muffled, questioning sound through the gag.

 _What are you doing?_ he wants to ask. But he can’t. Cas’s belt is in his mouth and Cas’s hand is in his chest, feeling around his ribs, the cage where they’re locked up together. Fingering him. It’s unbearably intimate. It’s control so fine and so absolute that it’s barely perceptible, except that Sam can’t feel anything else. Cas has him. Cas can play him. And he does, plucking, shaping, shock after shock, reverberating riffs of pleasure and pain. Sam’s a fucking electric guitar in the hand of a master. He doesn’t care what Cas knows any more, what he’s found out. He doesn’t care who’s in him. All he cares about is the music, the sounds he’s making. It doesn’t matter if the noise is a gargle of spittle that tastes of cheap leather dye. It’s so much deeper, the powerlessness, the perfect song. There, more, enough, not pins but a great taproot, splitting and knitting. Sam’s going to implode on command. He’s only waiting for the command.

It takes him a long time to realize it’s over. He’s slumped in the chair. His wrists are sore, and his ankles, and the corners of his mouth. He must have struggled. He must have fought. Cas is standing in front of him, grey like a week-old corpse, wiping Sam’s come off his chest with shaking, fastidious hands.

At least it’s familiar, the feeling of _What have I done?_

Cas unties him. They both stagger back to the bed. Cas is still hard. It looks ridiculous to Sam, like dicks aren’t even a concept any more. Still, he should, he should … He reaches out to touch. But Cas pulls away.

“No. Stop it. I don’t want to come. I don’t want to come from what we did. Just — stay. Please stay. But don’t touch. Please.” Cas’s voice isn’t calm any more.

Cas and sex can be odd. Sam does remember that, dimly. It’s not unusual for Cas to want a slow, contemplative detumescence in place of an orgasm. He likes to experience sex from different angles. So this isn’t unusual. In one way, it’s not unusual. Sam could almost pretend this is normal, just normal abnormal Cas. Almost.

But he can’t pretend. He gets it, belatedly. Cas had wanted it safe. He’d said so. He’d said so and he’d said no. And Sam had gone ahead and taken them over the cliff because he needed the fall, the sickening, definite impact with the ground. Sam had gone ahead and smashed them both. He’d made Cas command him, because he’d needed to obey.

He shouldn’t have done that. He really, really shouldn’t have done that. Maybe he did turn into Lucifer down there.

Too late to do anything now, though, except to let Cas have this. There’s a long way to go to where Sam can even start to apologize, if they ever get that far. All Sam can do now is stay put, perched uncomfortably on the edge of the bed.

“I can’t have your hair close,” Cas says sharply. “It tickles.”

Sam scrambles over and sits against the headboard, out of reach. He wraps his arms around his knees and locks his wrists in his hands.

“You can talk,” says Cas. It’s an apology. “I’d like it if you talked.”

“What should I talk about?”

“I don’t know. Whales.”

Sam did read _Moby Dick_ once, years ago. Obsessed, harpoon-wielding sperm-squeezers seem more or less exactly wrong for the moment, though. Sam runs a frantic memory review of the nature blogs he follows. Whales. Whales. For whatever imponderable reason, Cas wants whales. It’s very much the least that Sam can do.

“They have barnacles on them, you know. I always thought that was neat. Like, barnacles are about as stationary as it gets, but there they are, swimming about in the ocean attached to whales. They must travel thousands of miles.”

Cas relaxes a little and closes his eyes. He’s sprawled across the bed, a familiar body with a familiar angel inside. His dick is starting to soften.

“Do they?” he says.

Sam is pretty sure that Cas knows infinitely — probably literally infinitely — more about whales than he does. But he goes on talking.

“Barnacles and whale lice. They’re not really lice, of course. They’re crustaceans. They eat the whales’ skin. But it isn’t bad. Unless the whale is sick, it isn’t harmful. Mutual benefit. Not parasites, commensals.”

Cas opens his eyes again. 

“Do you think that’s how it’s supposed to work?” he asks. “Living on each other, eating skin, but good? Do you think that’s how my Father meant it to be?”

“I don’t know,” says Sam. 

He can’t summon up any more whale facts. He just sits there, feeling faint warmth from Cas’s unbroken, reclaimed, stolen skin.


End file.
